From the Mixed up Files of Arkham Asylum
by Major-Stardust
Summary: A doctor at Arkham gets fed up with "Group Therapy" and makes the patients start journals. Hopefully it's better than it sounds. I do not own Batman.
1. Chapter 1

"What's black and white and red all over?"

"A newspaper?"

"A zebra with a head cold!"

"A sunburned penguin?"

"No, no. It's an interracial couple who's just been stabbed to death!"

A fit of giggling erupted around the room. James Tyler sighed and rubbed his temples. Supervising group therapy was giving him a headache. In fact, just about everything at Arkham gave him a headache. He had bitten off more than he could chew when he applied for a position at Arkham Asylum. He had just finished med school and was looking for an exciting challenge. He had been delighted to learn that Arkham had a position open.

It was every Gotham psychiatry student's dream to work with the so-called Rogue's Gallery at Arkham. Countless experts had tried, time after time, to cure them, but no progress ever seemed to be made. Everyone wanted a shot at modern psychiatry's biggest challenge. James had been naïve enough to think that maybe, just maybe, he would succeed where so many others had failed.

Two months later, he knew better. He realized right off the bat that his expectations couldn't have been more wildly inaccurate. Working at Arkham turned out to be a thoroughly depressing job. He spent all day trying to cure people who didn't want to be cured, and were so far gone that they probably couldn't be cured even if they wanted to.

It was dangerous, too. In two months there had been fourteen escape attempts (nine of which had been successful), four murders, twenty-two fights, three patient suicides and a riot.

At least the pay was good.

"Mr. Nigma," James began, addressing the Riddler, who was looking rather smug at having made the group laugh. "Why do you feel the need to tell simple, schoolyard riddles with morbid answers?"

"Why, I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Doctor," Nigma replied, smirking. His tone positively dripped with fake innocence.

"Well, just last month, in a taped interview, you said the answer to the Riddle of the Sphinx was a baby, and when asked how that worked, you said just tear its arms off-"

"Oh, yeah. I remember that," Nigma said, his grin widening.

"Well, _I_ think the morbid riddles are his way of expressing his repressed homosexual desires-"

"Joker! You are _not_ a licensed psychiatrist and therefore unfit to psychologically evaluate _anyone,_" James reprimanded, trying to keep his voice as even as possible, as Nigma gave Joker the finger. The Joker had a habit of butting into other people's conversations that irritated James to no end.

"Well, Harley is!" Cried the Joker. "Harley girl, Doctor Tyler here says Eddy needs a second opinion. What d'you think?"

"Actually, Miss Quinzell has had her license revoked. She is no longer any more qualified than you to-"

"Hey!" Shouted Harley indignantly through a mouthful of bubble gum. "I might not have my license no more, but I am perfectly capable of psychological evaluation. Aren't I, Red?" She asked, turning to Poison Ivy.

"Oh, sure," Ivy muttered, rolling her eyes.

"Aw, thanks, Red," Harley said, the sarcasm of her friend's response lost on her. "For instance, Puddin', your diagnosis was all wrong. Eddy here tells his riddles for attention-"

"Gee, really?" murmured Two-Face sarcastically. "Who would've known?"

"Hey, _I_ didn't know that!" called Killer Croc."

"Shut up," sneered the Scarecrow. "You aren't even involved in this conversation!"

"_Everyone_ is involved in this conversation. This is _group_ therapy, Mr. Crane," said James.

"It's _Professor _Crane, you moron!"

"Mistah Jay! They ain't lettin' me finish talkin' about psychiatry!" whined Harley, pouting.

"Well, I don't blame them. Hearing you talk about psychiatry is about as interesting as hearing Tetch talk about 'Alice in Wonderland',"

"Well, just because you have no respect for classic literature doesn't mean _other_ people don't find it interesting!" cried the Mad Hatter.

"Jervis, honey, everybody's tired of that book except you," said Ivy.

And just like that, they were off. What had started as an attempt to evaluate Edward Nigma's mental condition had turned into a full blow argument. Everyone was shouting over everyone else. James's temples throbbed as the volume level steadily increased. Every group therapy session so far had, unfortunately, been about this productive.

"Shut up! Everybody just shut up!" James shouted, rising to his feet. Everyone was so taken aback by the sudden outburst from the usually mild-mannered doctor that the room went dead silent. Everyone's attention was focused on Doctor Tyler.

"I have had it up to here with all of you! You're all so damn immature! I feel like I'm giving group therapy to a bunch of middle schoolers! This is achieving _nothing_!"

"What's your point, Doc?" asked the Joker, raising an eyebrow.

"My point is, things are going to be different from now on," he stated, calming down slightly. "Since talking about your problems seems to be so difficult, I'm going to have you _write_ about them."

This declaration was met with silence.

"What do you mean by that, exactly?" asked Ivy.

"I mean, I'm going to give you each a composition book and you're going to write in it."

"Write about what?" asked the Riddler, crossing his arms suspiciously.

"Write about whatever. Write about your past. Write about your current situation. Write about anything you think I ought to know about you. Write about your problems."

The Joker raised his hand. "I don't have problems," he declared, crossing his arms.

"_Everyone _here has problems. That's why you're here," James sighed.

"Do I have to do this? I'm not even crazy!" whined Firefly.

Ivy raised her hand. "I can't do this. I don't use paper. I just can't have anything to do with a product made from slaughtered trees-"

"Too bad," James cut in. "I've already bought the composition books and if you don't use one, I'll just have to throw it away." He hadn't really bought them, but he knew Ivy couldn't stand the thought of so much paper being wasted.

Ivy opened her mouth to retaliate, closed it, thought for a moment then crossed her arms indignantly.

"Is this assignment really fair?" called the Riddler.

"What do you mean, Mr. Nigma?"

"I mean," he chortled. "Does Croc even know how to write?" A few people snickered.

"Shut up," muttered Croc, sneering. "I writes just fine, dumbass."

"Then why can't you speak properly?" More snickering.

"Ah, moving right along," said James hastily. He could sense Croc's growing agitation and wanted to avoid a violent conflict at all costs. "Does anyone have any more questions?"

Two-Face raised his hand. "What if we just don't do this assignment?"

"What if I take away your rec room privileges for a month?"

Two-Face scoffed. "As if we give a damn whether or not we get to spend time 'socializing' with these bastards…" But James was pretty sure his threat was enough to ensure Two-Face's compliance.

Joker giggled. "You said we could write about _anything_ we wanted, right? Well, what if I write about the time Harley and I were hiding in this abandoned motel, and we found a can of whipped cream and a box of flavored con-"

"Puddin'!" Harley chided.

"Uh, let's keep this PG, _please_," James requested, feeling his face flush slightly.

"Can't make any promises, Doc," the Joker replied, crossing his arms behind his head.

Scarecrow shot a disgusted glance at Joker before calling out "What if-"

"No more 'what if' questions, alright guys?" James pleaded wearily. "Let's end this session early so you can all start planning what you're going to write, okay?"

Everybody nodded and began to get up from their chairs except for the Joker, who raised his hand and waved it.

"Is this another 'what if' question?" asked James sternly. The Joker shook his head earnestly.

"Alright, what is it?"

"I'm not allowed to have a pencil."

James sighed. This assignment was already turning out to be more trouble than it was worth.


	2. Chapter 2 The Joker

Really, Doc? "Write about your past"? I feel that discriminates against the small percentage of us who don't have one. I ought to file a complaint. But, because I'm so ridiculously merciful, I'll let you slide, _just this once_. Also, it turns out, as a patient, I'm not allowed to file complaints against the staff. Go figure.

Perhaps I should just continue on my evaluation of things-that-are-wrong-with-this-assignment. If you'll recall, another _helpful_ suggestion you gave us was "Just write about anything you think I ought to know about you". There's _nothing_ you ought to know about me that you don't already know. The only things you need to know about me are the things I _want_ you to know about me. And you already know them. You following me, Doc? No? Good.

But were you _really _expecting me to just up and decide "Hey, I'm the biggest mystery this sad city has ever seen, I think I'll spill my deepest, darkest secrets to the newest temporary member of the staff here. Yes, Doc, temporary. It's highly likely that you won't last till Christmas. Oh, I simply can't wait to see in what delightfully horrible way you'll meet your end. Perhaps you'll get locked in Mr. Freeze's cold room overnight, like that orderly last month. Or maybe you'll have a heart attack after ending up on the wrong side of a canister of fear gas. Or maybe, just maybe, you'll be going throw my psychiatric files in a futile attempt to solve the puzzle that is my psyche, and come across a blank piece of paper laced with anthrax. (Please note that no such paper exists. But if one does, please note that I was in no way involved in putting it there.)

Everything about you positively screams "Goner!" From the moment you set foot in the door, the brawny types had you pegged as "easy to beat up" and the brainy types had you pegged as "easy to manipulate". I, however, gently reprimanded them. I said "Now, now. You can't judge a book by it's cover!" (What? Don't believe me? Good. You're smarter than you look.) But now it's painfully obvious that all of our worst suspicions are true. Just look at your methods. I mean, writing about ourselves so you can _get to know us better?_ That's not therapy, it's a 7th grade English assignment, for Christ's sake! Really, after what I've suffered through at the hands of these so-called "doctors", this is nothing short of insulting! I've had electro-shock therapy (which I most certainly did not consent to, but of course that was neither here nor there to the staff. They have a reputation as violent, sadistic torturers to maintain, dammit!). I've been thoroughly grilled by cops, Doctors and certain pointy-eared vigilantes whose only superpowers are the magic ability to get out of thousands of dollars of property damage without paying a cent. I've been sedated to the brink of death (which believe me, is not as fun as it sounds). I'm on enough medication to finish off Keith Richards (which isn't all bad. One medication I was taking a few months ago turned my piss blue. I put some in Harvey's breakfast cereal. Hearing him scream like a little girl when he went to take a leak was worth having my rec room privileges revoked for a month. Ah, the classics never die!).

But, myself aside, perhaps this little experiment of yours will be a complete success. It may provide you with excellent insight on the mental states of my fellow rogues, such as:

Mr. Freeze just needs to man the fuck up and get over his wife's death already.

Edward is a major attention whore with a huge ego

Harley really needs to cut back on her sugar intake

Ivy likes plants…a lot…

Harvey talks to himself. Both of him.

and

Croc has no command of even the most basic principles of English grammar.

Oh, wait. You already knew all of that? Okay, scrap this idea. I was getting bored anyway. Bring on the electroshock, baby!


	3. Chapter 3 Harley Quinn

The moment I saw my Pudding, I _knew_ we were destined to be together. Okay, maybe I didn't _know_ that I knew, but I didn't really know anything back then, did I? Sure, I had plenty of facts rattling around in my noggin, being fresh from med school and all, but they were all meaningless. For all my book smarts, I was just another pathetic, lonely sad sap going about her business, content with my miserable existence because I didn't have nothing to compare it to. Wasted potential. Mr. J opened my eyes to a whole new world of laughter and love, glamour and color. And grenades. Lots of grenades.

The doctors here treat my little change in lifestyle like it was a bad thing. A fall from grace, some call it. Well, lemme tell you, if my previous life was "grace", then it ain't so amazing after all. In reality, meeting the Joker was the best thing that's ever happened to me. It's amazing, really, that a guy like him would even notice a girl like who I was. But I guess he saw through my dull exterior to the fun-loving gal trapped inside, just dying to get out. All she needed was a little motivation, a _push_ if you will.

I won't lie, my initial meeting with Mr. J didn't go so hot. He'd put a flower in my office, and it got me all upset (it was real sweet of him, though, and there wasn't even blood on it like those roses he gave me last Valentine's Day). I didn't snitch on him, even though he'd been out of his cell (a big no-no, even back then when security was looser). Good thing, too. If I had told on him, I probably wouldn't have been able to set up my sessions with him, and then where would I be? (Don't answer that. I'd be without my Pudding, that's where, and I'd rather not think about that.)

At this point, I guess I wasn't really in love. Just… intrigued. I had this crazy idea that I was gonna write some sort of tell-all book providing a fresh, in-depth analysis of the mental states of Gotham's most infamous citizens, then sit back and relax while I raked in the green (gosh, it's funny how naïve I was back then). So I set up a session with the Joker. _Everybody _discouraged me. Said it was a bad idea, I was too inexperienced, he would manipulate me, yada yada. I didn't listen to _none_ of them. I knew what I was in for. Or, at least I thought I did.

I was wrong. Therapy with Mr. J wasn't nothing like I imagined it would be. He actually opened up to me. Told me his secrets. Let me in on the joke. I can't tell you half of what he revealed to me in our therapy sessions (even if I wanted to, it probably wouldn't be beneficial to my health, if you catch my drift), but it helped me to _understand _him. I could look past his murder rep and all those other unimportant little details. _I_ saw him for who he _really _was, and lemme tell you, I _liked _ what I saw.

Ever seen one of those romantic comedies where some career-oriented, stick-up-her-ass chick and some easy-going, funny guy are, for reasons outside of their control, forced to work together? And he teaches her to loosen up and enjoy life, and they've fallen madly in love by the end of the movie? (Who am I kidding, of course you've seen one of those movies. Everyone has. There's one opening like, every week.) Well, falling for the Joker was a lot like that, except with less Matthew McConaughey. I fell head over heels in love with public enemy number one.

But, like that play where the two British kids commit suicide because their families hate each other, our love could never be. I was a doctor, he was a mass-murdering clown. They were incompatible careers. Somebody had to change. Since Mr. J had that whole incurable insanity thing going for him, I decided to take matters into my own hands. It was easy as exploding cream pie. I just got my hands on a costume (and didn't pay a cent over free, what a deal!) and busted Mr. J out of the funny farm. He laughed the whole way home, he was so happy.

I thought my happily ever after would come right away, but it turned out there was still work to be done. See, some couples have to wait for financial stability to get married. That ain't a problem for us as long as long as Gotham continues to have banks. What we have to wait for is the death of Batman. I tried to be proactive, but I was too inexperienced. I made the fatal mistake of making a joke that needed to be explained (and using fish to do it- yuck!). For that, I deserved to be tossed out that window. It was my fault, after all.

I've learned since then, but I still occasionally make bad jokes or screw up Mr. J's plans. He usually gives me the boot so that I have time to think about what I've done. It's no problem. I know he'll take me back. He loves me too much to cut me off permanently. And while we're having one of our little lovers' spats, I can always stay with Red.

Good old Red. She's my bestest friend in the whole world, even if she doesn't get the whole Love concept. She's got this crazy idea that Mr. J doesn't love me and is just using me. (Red ain't very good at reading other people, see.) But other than that, she's lots of fun. Sure, all she ever serves are veggies (a gal's gotta have chocolate, is all I'm saying) but I still love staying at her house. We stay up late, and paint each other's nails, and watch movies, and rob banks together. You know, just your average girl's night activities. And as serious as she tries to act, deep down she's got a great sense of humor. There was this one time, when we had just robbed a museum, and we drove through McDonald's... But that's a different story for a different day.

Besides Red, I've met plenty of other interesting people in my illustrious criminal career. Professor Crane is real nice. He's pretty much my best friend, other than Red. Eddie is fun, even if his riddles make my brain hurt. Jervis is nice in a creepy, weird kind of way, but Mr. J doesn't like him very much.

Unfortunately, not everyone is so nice, no matter how friendly I try to be to them. Two-Face acts like I'm some kind of dumb blonde or something. Scarface calls me a "dizzy broad" (whatever _that_ means). I don't think Croc has looked at my face once since I've known him (his eyes never make it up that far). Then there's that whole grudge Catwoman has against me, all because of some silly little incident a few years back. Sure, I tried to grind her up into cat food, but it wasn't nothing personal. It was just part of this brilliant plan of Mr. J's to defeat Batman. She really needs to get over it. I mean, Mr. J's tried to kill me for not putting enough milk in his cereal, but you don't see me being a drama queen about it. It sure must suck for Batman, having such a high maintenance girlfriend.

You know, as much as everyone complains about it, Arkham really isn't all that bad. Sure, the shrinks are bossy and obnoxious and don't even understand basic psychology (no offense, just stating the truth). Sure, a starving African would refuse the crap they try to pass off as food. The sheets are scratchy and it's hot in the summer and cold in the winter. Sure, the orderlies get a little grope-happy during strip searches, and we only get _fifteen_ _freaking minutes_ to shower (You might wanna do something about that, hint hint).

But it ain't _all _bad. There's art therapy, and that's fun, even though Mr. J said I paint like a kindergartener. There's music therapy (even if me and that music guy with the gap in his teeth are the only ones who enjoy it). We get movie night once a month (Mr. J got banned from it after the laughed through Schindler's List) and there's daily rec room time (but that ain't so much fun now that the TV's broken. Eddie threw a shoe at it when a contestant on Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader said he didn't think penguins are birds. It was pretty funny, but it wasn't really worth not having TV, so you might wanna call someone to fix it).

And of course I usually have Mr. J to keep me company. Except for when he escapes without me. Red says he's intentionally leaving me behind because he doesn't want me, but I know better. My Pudding is a spur-of-the-moment kind of guy, getting caught up in what he's doing and overlooking minor details.

_Not_ that I'm a minor detail to him, of course. I'm his pumpkin pie, his Harley Quinn. We're in love. You can deny it all you want, just like every other worthless doctor running this puzzle factory, but it's true. Just because my Pudding is a little rough sometimes doesn't mean he hates me. Our relationship is just… different. Mr. J's not like other guys, and we're not like other couples. But someday, we'll kill Batman, and then get married and settle down with our babies (and maybe have some non-hyena babies of our own) and _be happy._ Just wait. You'll see. I'll show you all.


End file.
